


Convince Me I'm Not Drowning

by detritius



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blood, Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham, POV Alternating, Sexual Content, Violence, Will Graham Has Encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during "Fromage." As Will's condition worsens, he finds himself drawn closer and closer to Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story ages ago, and I thought it'd be a short little thing I'd have done in no time and it really, really wasn't. So I'm posting it in multiple parts, probably three but possibly more, as I get them finalized. Rated for later chapters, as this one is mostly pre-slash with references to canonical violence.  
> Title is from "Falling" by The Civil Wars.

How should he feel after being attacked as he was, fighting for his life? Shaken, he supposed. Not… exhilarated. He had never killed that way before, his prey vicious, feral, thrumming with life. Tobias hadn’t been a moon-eyed calf, a lamb that could only bleat on his way to slaughter, but something else entirely. A shark, perhaps. A delicacy. And the moment of his death had been... exquisite. Even the memory had its savor. Through the persistent pain in his leg, he felt a kind of consummate pleasure as he pictured it, those final moments, the primal man triumphant. If he were anyone else, he supposed it would be hard to keep from smiling.

Still, he managed all the appropriate responses for Jack Crawford, looking down, allowing his hands to shake. He suspected Will saw more, but not the truth. When he knew, it would show on his face.

Instead, he slid in close, seating himself on the edge of Hannibal’s desk with a heated, shuddering sigh that settled on him like a mantle of lead. His guilt showed in every line of his body. “I feel like I’ve… dragged you into my world.”

Hannibal looked away, this time without artifice. Will’s self-loathing made him hard to look at. “No,” he said, “I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company.” Will smiled, but couldn’t hold it, his features sagging back into despair, and that was hard to look at, too. Only Will could have this effect on him. He reached out and laid a hand on Will’s knee. Lightly, not necessarily implying anything, but a tumult of emotions crossed Will’s face all the same. Hannibal moved to stand, as if he had merely clutched at Will for balance, and Will grasped Hannibal’s arm, steadying him. They were within a breath of one another, and now the distress was wiped from Will’s face, replaced by puzzlement, curiosity, a heat in his eyes. Hannibal wondered if this was how he had looked just before he kissed Alana Bloom. 

He turned away from Will with an abruptness meant to look like shame, and when he heard the little catch in his breath, he knew. A cheshire smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but he angled his head down, just long enough. As Will started to pull away, Hannibal caught his gaze and held it with affected shyness. Let Will think he was the bold one. No need for him to feel seduced. "I would rather not remain here,” he said, the faintest tremor in his voice. He stood gracelessly, favoring his injured leg, faltered, and used the opportunity to grasp Will’s upper arm. Will didn’t pull away, and the wanting in his eyes doubled, tripled, swelled, his pulse speeding, his breathing rough between parted lips. He was laid out like the proverbial feast, so sweet and ripe and there for the taking. How could he resist?

He took a step closer, close as he dared in this crowded room. He could restrain himself for now; he had no desire to see Will disgraced. Even so, it took much of his self control not to react when Will sighed and sagged and all but collapsed against him, all the guilt he wore gone, all the exhaustion, all the fear, nothing left but need. This close, he was very warm, the cloying scent of his sickness radiating off him. If he could feel that heat so clearly even through coarse cotton, what would it be like to touch his bare skin? He swallowed, an unprecedented loss of composure. He needed Will alone. Now.

He took a deep breath and let it shudder through him as he exhaled. “But after today’s events, I would rather not be alone. Would you and your sidearm like to have dinner with me?”

 

Will can feel Dr. Lecter’s eyes on him. He’s staring down at his plate, has been for most of the meal, afraid that if he looks up, Dr. Lecter will be able to see the hot flush that started in his cheeks and spread down his neck, under his shirt. He pulls at his collar, trying to relieve some of that heat, and he can feel his fingers trembling against his neck. I am not your patient. The fork rattles in his hand. Bad enough to do that to Alana, and she's only… only his friend. This is so much worse. Dr. Lecter could lose his license, and that would call every case he worked on into question, every motive he uncovered, every piece of evidence he touched. So much could come undone because of this.

He tries to focus on the plate of food in front of him, but he can barely taste it. His mouth is dry, his stomach roiling, his muscles tensing fitfully under clothes that bind and stifle him. He wants to undo the button at his throat, and then maybe the next and the next and the next until he can breathe again, but it's no good. There's no chance Dr. Lecter would miss the movement, and his gaze would be drawn from Will's shaking hands to his neck, his chest. Those eyes moving over his naked skin... Will moans and presses his thighs together. He shouldn't... He shouldn't... But his head throbs, making it hard to think, and his gathered reasons skitter like spiders. Sweat drips down the bridge of his nose, making his glasses slip. With a shaking hand, he reaches up and sets them aside, exposing his face, flesh and bone and treacherous thoughts beneath. His every instinct is screaming at him to cover himself, but it's hot, too hot, and he wants a strong hand in his, a cool cloth at his brow, solid ground beneath him. 

"Will?"

Shaken from his thoughts, he glances up at – at Hannibal, because they could be friends too, couldn’t they? Just having conversations? -- to find the other man looking expectantly back at him. "I'm sorry," he says, his face burning even hotter. Moisture gathers on his neck and in the dip of his back. "Did you ask me something?"

"Only if you object to venison. You've barely touched your food."

"I don't have much of an appetite," Will admits.

"After everything that happened today, that's hardly a surprise. Try to eat anyway. You need the protein."

Obediently, Will focuses on his plate again, busying his hands with his silverware. The meat is dark and vital, swimming with juices, but all he can taste is blood. He can still smell it, stagnant water, the stench of fear from the dead officers, cordite, the raw meat of Tobias's wound, dripping. His stomach turns, and only his regard for Hannibal keeps him from pushing his plate away. He takes a sip of water and tries to steady his hands. Red drops on the rim of the glass. His tongue traces out, and he realizes the blood he tasted was his own. Unknowingly, he bit his lip clean through.

"You're bleeding." A chair scrapes back, and then Hannibal's at his side, and Will closes his eyes to keep from seeing him. As if that could keep him from being seen. There's a cloth pressed to his lips, one of Hannibal's fine linen napkins. He tries to twist away. 

"No. No. I'll ruin it."

"The stains will come out. Hold still." Hannibal cups his face, holding him there, and Will has to fight down a whimper. Hannibal's palm is cool against his burning cheek, his long fingers smooth and steady as they brush the shell of his ear, sink into his damp and tangled hair. "Shh, shh," Hannibal murmurs, stroking Will's face now, soothing and gentling him, and Will struggles with the urge to lean into his touch. It reminds him too much of Winston pressing his nose into his palm, asking for reassurance. He isn't a stray, some poor, abandoned thing by the side of the road. He tells himself he isn't. But when Hannibal pulls away from him, a whine escapes from his throat, tapering off into nothing, and he's no better than an animal.

Hannibal brushes his thumb across Will's lip one last time, almost a caress now, and Will tries not to groan, his eyelids fluttering. Then Hannibal pulls away entirely and he's distant, all professionalism and efficiency again. "The bleeding's stopped. Do you want something for the pain?"

"Aspirin," Will rasps, his fifth today, or sixth, but he's beyond caring. Hannibal's footsteps recede and finally, Will opens his eyes. But the light, low as it is, pierces into his head and from the kitchen, he hears water running, thundering into a basin with a roar like a physical force, enough to send him shuddering. He closes his eyes again and tries to block it out, but he feels as though he's standing in front of an encroaching tide, cold spray on his face, sand dragged from beneath his feet, the ground falling away into reeling, ringing emptiness. He tries to take deep breaths, but he even smells it, brine and sweet decay, the stink of his fear and his shame rising up to choke him. Clammy drops roll down his face and he clutches at the edge of the table, the water still pounding, pounding. Hannibal scrubbing at his befouled hands. _The stains will come out._ Red on white. Plasma suspension of hemoglobin on flaxen fibers and the upper layers of Hannibal's skin. Bright blooms on the bandage wrapping Hannibal's leg. Two bodies under white sheets.

Will's stomach drops and his head reels. He shouldn't be here.


	2. Chapter Two

Out glass doors and into the snowy night. The sky is grey and starless, the whole world clean and cold and still. He looks up into that empty sky with wild longing. He wants to feel such sweet and easy peace, breathe in the silence, become part of it. But his breath rises in seething clouds as he pulls in ragged gasps, and his staggering footsteps trail out behind him, dark and ugly in the pristine snow. Shuddering now, he closes his eyes and tries to be still. Falling flakes kiss his upturned face, catch in his hair, his eyelashes. They melt on his fevered skin, running down his face like tears. He can't fade into the peace around him, only mar it with his presence. There's something wrong in him, something corrosive, hot and vile. He's a contagion, a spreading stain, an oil spill.

"Will. Come back inside."

"Dr. Lecter." The words stumble out of his mouth, and he is rough and unguarded. It takes everything in him not to cover his face.

Hannibal's standing in the doorway, two white pills in his outstretched hand. Unable to look at Hannibal, so nearly his first casualty, his patient zero, his... his victim, Will's vision narrows to just those pills, respite, solace, salvation. He gravitates toward them, and they pass his lips on instinct, ground to a powder, their taste bitter and strong. They numb his mouth and his throat on the way down, and he swallows convulsively, trying to force back bile. He tries to imagine white particles slipping through his stomach wall and into his bloodstream, surging up through his aorta, the pounding in his head starting to ease. The pills stay down. His breath blows out white in a sigh.

"Good," Hannibal says. "But you should have something to drink. Come." He ushers Will back into the dining room. Will doesn't start to shiver until the door closes behind him, but then it takes him violently, doubling him over, wracking through his bones. Hannibal's hands are on his shoulders, points of warmth now where they were cool before. It's the only thing holding him up. His legs weak, he staggers back, letting the door take most of his weight, the plate glass piercingly cold through the damp flannel of his shirt. His breath comes ragged. Hannibal's hands are still on his shoulders, and now, one comes up to cup his face again. This time, he doesn't resist the urge to lean into the offered comfort.

"You're cold," Hannibal says, the pad of his thumb rasping against Will's stubbled cheek, raising goosebumps. "Why did you run out into the snow?"

Will doesn't want to look at him, but they're too close for him to turn away. He lets his eyes lose their focus, and Hannibal is only a figure in an expressionist painting, a study in contrasts, highlights and shadows. "I should have killed him," he says, without meaning to. "He wouldn't have come after you. I should have... I -- I got my gun up fast enough, and then there was... light and sound and clarity." Stillness and certainty in that moment, the gun like a living thing in his hands, and he saw the shot before he fired it. "I felt --" His voice breaks. "Powerful." He could have driven his bullet into the killer's brain, shattered him, made an end, and he had wanted to, like a welling scream perched under his chin, the thrumming of bowed strings, the final snap of a fraying rope. And it was wanting that had stopped him. His shot went wide. Then, the ringing silence, blood and smoke and distant voices.

Hannibal brings him back to this moment. "And how do you feel now?"

He laughs humorlessly. "Now, I feel like this... this half-finished, clumsy thing waiting for the breath that'll unlock my joints and let me stand." 

"Like the first man, brought out from the clay," says Hannibal. "And who is to be the great god who will breathe the life back into you?"

Will makes the mistake of looking into his eyes. 

"You ask much of me, Will," Hannibal says. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded and his expression is grave as he cradles Will's face, so gently, and Will feels fragile in his hands, as though he could shake apart.

He's pinned by Hannibal's fathomless eyes, his heart beating against his ribs again. Mouth dry, he says, "I know." And then he asks too much, again, with wordless lips. He fractures the barriers between them, clawing and desperate, dragging them both down. Hannibal's taste in his mouth. Pain throbs out from his bitten lip and he cries out, the sound caught and muffled. He seises at Hannibal's collar, wool and silk and lean muscle under his scrabbling hands. Hannibal, reaching out for him. He's a drowning man, caught up by a current, gasping, fervent pleas falling soundless against Hannibal's lips. And then Hannibal's pushing him back, and it'll end here, it'll end, and Hannibal's eyes will be cold, rebuking him for his imposition, his _presumption_ , and he'll be sent away, out into the night, into the office of some hard-faced stranger, into a ten-by-ten cell and Chilton's rough and imperious hands. But Hannibal only pushes Will away for seconds, long enough for icy fear to grip him, melted away again by Hannibal's breath on his mouth. He leans in with restraint and a determined gentleness, ending Will's destructive assault. Holding Will by the back of the neck, he takes control of the kiss, his mouth molding softly to Will's. His lips are warm and solid as the rest of the world loses its distinctness, edges running, colors bleeding, paint blossoming through water. With a shudder and a sigh, Will closes his eyes and lets himself be swept away, and for once, his mind is quiet. But in the dark behind his lids, he sees Alanna the way she looked last night, his shadow falling across her face, her furrowed brow, her pitying eyes. _I am not your patient_.

He's pushing Hannibal away before he can think about it. “I can't. I – I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking. He tries to take a step back and hits the glass door, crumpling against it, wanting to run, to get out under the night sky and claw at himself and scream until this feeling leaves him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and he's pitiful, contemptible, lower than low.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Hannibal's body is much too close to his, not touching, not quite, but Will can feel his warmth and it would be so easy to lean into it, let it engulf him. But he presses himself back against the urge, even as his damp shirt sticks to the glass, the skin under it stinging and going numb. Let the cold take him, slow his heart, dull his senses. Let it make him still.

“I shouldn't have...” he says, the words thick and faltering. “I -- I crossed a line. I’m already putting you in danger, I can’t ask you to risk your reputation –”

"Then it's fortunate you haven't asked." Hannibal closes the little space between them. His palm is warm against Will's cheek, and Will cringes away with what feels like the last of his strength. It's little more than a twitch, and Hannibal's hand is there again in seconds, steadying him now. Will feels the gentle shocks of Hannibal's pulse, rhythmic but not slow, and his breath hitches, halfway between a moan and a sob. Much more and the current will take him, drown his reason and drag him under, but Hannibal is unrelenting, heedless of what it's costing Will to hold himself back. "I've stood at my professional distance and watched fear cloud every eye that looked on you. If propriety dictates, should I avert my eyes as well? Should I turn you out into the cold?"

"You'd have every right," Will says, to the empty air separating his body and Hannibal's, the only distance left between them. "I never meant to make you feel guilty or -- or obligated --"

Hannibal kisses him again, catching his words and swallowing them. He's gentle, still, but only enough to keep the sore spot on Will's lip from reopening. "Does that taste of obligation to you?" he asks, so low Will wouldn't have heard if there was even a breath of space between them. Hannibal's breath on his cheek, his neck, the hot flick of his tongue. His lips moving over Will's skin even as the words keep streaming out of him. "Our relationship is already far beyond the realm of doctor and patient, or you would not be here." His mouth at Will's neck, now, his hand in his hair. "You have entered into my world, and I into yours. It's only a small step from there to desire." The slight graze of teeth at the base of his throat. Will moans and tries not to shake, Hannibal pressing him into the glass, Hannibal pressing into him. "I have come to desire you, and I can feel that you desire me." Heat in his cheeks, the slow burn of shame as he becomes aware of the weight down between his legs. "Besides, you only risk my reputation if you tell. Are you going to tell, Will?”

He's shaking his head, too far gone for words, mostly not believing this is happening. That this can happen. Hannibal, not holding him at arm's length, not telling him to shake it off and keep looking. Hannibal, not pushing him away. He realizes his arms have come up around Hannibal's shoulders, clutching him tight, hands fisting up in his suit jacket. He realizes he's canting his hips up.

Hannibal sighs, and Will can feel his lips curving up, a contented smile against his skin. "Good. Then there is nothing to stand in our way." Nothing in the way, nothing left but clothes between them. When Hannibal kisses him next, it leaves him breathless. "Let's see if we can't quiet the voices in your head for awhile."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: more Hannibal POV!
> 
> I'm trying to post something for this fandom on the day each new episode airs, so possibly expect Chapter Three up this time next week.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, I did not manage to get this done in three parts, so there's no real resolution at the end of this chapter.

At last, Will Graham beneath his lips. At last, the taste of him. Salt and bitter analgesic, smokey-sweet lingering whiskey, the acidity of fear. Lust and fever tasted much the same on him, the same lush warmth, and together they were like cinnamon, cloves, and saffron, swirling and vital. All that he tasted just on the surface of the skin and the in moisture gathered there. There was nothing, now, that Will could hide from him. His body gave him away.

Hannibal kissed Will's collarbone and breathed against his hot, pyrexic skin, feeling his reactive shudders and the thrumming of his elevated pulse. So much blood in him, brought close to the surface by Hannibal's attentions. He could feel through his clothes the part of Will most acutely swelled, scimitar-curved and weighty, and the urge to take it into his hand was overwhelming. That surprised him, to find himself harboring these adolescent's desires. Next he supposed he'd want to fumble and grope at Will in some darkened corner, blushing at the resultant sticky mess and whispering promises he didn't plan to keep.

He returned to Will's lips, opening him up with a lingering kiss, savoring him. Will surged up to meet him, kissing back with force and carnal hunger. The taste of fresh blood in his mouth, and human meat braised in wine. Yes. Oh, yes. Did Will feel, yet, the little changes that came from partaking in forbidden flesh? What would be first to emerge: an increase in his strength, the heightening of his senses, a new boldness and clarity in the wake of failing inhibition? Hannibal planned to cultivate all this in Will, feed him more and more until the scent of it breathed from his skin and, alone in his little house, he found himself hungering for something he couldn't name. It would become an intrinsic part of him, and they would be together.

Enflamed by the thought, he embraced Will and held him in a clinch, feeling the contours of his body, sweet and pliable. Will clung to him in turn, ardent, rutting and moaning, biting at Hannibal's lips with fledgling savagery. His chest heaved like a wild thing, cornered, and the fever that engulfed him pressed on Hannibal's senses. Hot and thick and sticky, it filled the night with summer sweetness, drowning entirely the trite scent of Will's aftershave. Nothing to hide, now. Nothing to hide behind.

He slid his hands down the front of Will's shirt, making short work of the buttons there, and Will divested himself of the garment and tore at Hannibal's collar and tie with unskilled hands. "No, no, let me," Hannibal said, but fondly, forgiving Will his infraction. "You take off your pants."  
Will obeyed readily, kicking off shoes and socks too as Hannibal slipped out of his suit jacket and shirt, folding them neatly over the back of a chair. His tie, he wound up and pocketed, in case... He almost smiled.

"You gonna take those off, too?" Will asked, eying his slacks, his voice gone thick and husky.

"Not yet. Come here." Hannibal guided him towards the center of the room where the long table awaited and pulled aside his customary chair at the head, clearing a space. He backed Will up until the lip of the table pressed against his upper thighs and held him there awhile, kissing him, running his hands over him. Will arched up unsubtly against him, clutching greedily at his shoulders and back, gasping, panting, hot and eager. His facades, his careful distance and control, unraveled more with every breath. Months spent picking at his seams and here, at last, was his reward. Will was wonderfully reactive, trembling and moaning and whispering Hannibal's name. Touching him was like drawing his fingertips across the strings of a harp, the slightest movement creating delicate melodies. And like such a harp, how easy it would be to pluck hard at the strings, dissonance in startled gasps and wounded cries. The thought made him handle Will all the more gently. To batter him about like the rest of the careless world would hold no satisfaction. Bequeathed into his hands, he would have Will feel only the most exquisite pain or airless heights of pleasure, sensation in clear and ringing notes. Ecstasy and anguish, but never discomfiture.

He maneuvered Will so he sat on the tabletop, then slid between his knees and twined long fingers in his hair, kissing him deeply, sweetly. Will's legs came up around his waist, and Hannibal was wrapped and snared in him like a clinging vine. The heat of him was extraordinary. Hannibal ached to be inside him, and that ache converged to one treacherous point when Will began to roll his hips and press himself in fitful bursts to Hannibal's tumescence. A warning hand on his neck made him still. "Lie back," Hannibal breathed. "I want to look at you." 

Will moved to obey too quickly, knocking into the centerpiece and sending cut flowers spilling across the table even as Hannibal caught and set aside the bowl used for their display. Will's face leaned into the heel of his hand. "I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry."

"Nothing's broken," Hannibal said, "and there's no water spilled. They were meant only for tonight." A gentle hand at his shoulder, easing him back. "You have nothing to apologize for." At his urging, Will lay down amongst the flowers, delicate snowdrops showing through his tumbling curls, the purple-black curve of an arum lily against his pale throat, sprigs of coriander giving up their scent. Will lay there rigid at first, unsure, unused, perhaps, to being on display. "Close your eyes if it's easier," Hannibal murmured, and Will did. He was free, then, to study Will ardently and in fine detail: the way his lashes lay against his cheek, the stubborn shape of his lips and jaw, the dip below his neck where his collarbones met, the occasional freckle, the small irregularities of his skin, his well-turned legs, his rough and lovely hands. Hannibal traced the strong lines of his musculature, making Will hum and sigh, measuring with handspans as if he planned to draw him, thinking and not thinking of the way those muscles connected, came together, would come apart. With him lying here, so still, it was too easy to forget that there was more to Will than his substance. 

To banish those thoughts, he brought Will to life with his touch, making him catch his breath, tremble, squirm, writhe. Hannibal stroked the taut muscles of his stomach and teased at his inner thighs, drawing ever closer to the one scrap of fabric that still shielded Will from his view. The curve of Will's erection was more than clear, and straining. Finally, Hannibal relented and caressed Will through underwear worn thin with many washings. Will seemed almost to convulse, lifting his hips into the touch, arching up off the table. When he stilled again, Hannibal slid his fingers beneath the waistband. "May I take these off you?"

Will breathed out a soft, shuddering little moan. "Please."

Hannibal slid the garment down Will's legs and let it fall, forgotten, as he stepped back, at last, to view the full tableau.

He could not look at Will that way for long, but in his memory palace, a door opened for the sight. He fixed every detail in his mind: Will, his beautiful Will, clothed only in firelight and deep, velvet shadows, his hair tousled, his eyes half-lidded, surrounded by flower petals and laid out on the table under the painting of Leda and the Swan. Hannibal ran one hand up Will's smooth thigh and let it linger there a moment, in imitation of the swan's head. It seemed to him an apt parallel. Like Leda, Will was flushed and welcoming, legs open, ready to accept the gift that had been offered to him. In Hannibal's mind, this moment would hang suspended like a butterfly in amber.

"Do you know what I want to do to you, Will?" he asked, almost unconsciously.

A low, breathless laugh. "I think I have the basic idea."

Hannibal struggled to compose himself, to pull himself back behind his human veil. "I would like to make love to you," he said, when he was sure of the words, "but not yet. You aren't ready."

Will's steady, direct gaze on him. "I feel ready."

Hannibal traced one finger down Will's calf and watched the shivers ripple outward from the place he'd touched. "You're tense, still. Do you want me to tear you open?"

Another shudder ran through him, but at the same time, his cock twitched in a way that seemed not entirely opposed to the idea. Will's face reddened and he covered himself with one hand, ashamed, perhaps afraid, of the bent of his desire. "What do you propose, then?"

Hannibal watched Will's face as he spoke, watched his eyes close and his gasping lips part. "I would bring you to orgasm with my mouth and ready you in the wake of your climax, when your muscles would be at their most relaxed. You would be very loose and perhaps semi-conscious. It wouldn't hurt you. And when you were slick enough inside and able to stand again, I would have you bend over this table."

Will's voice was little more than a whisper. "And then you'd fuck me?"

Hannibal inclined his head. "And then I'd fuck you."

And lying there on his back, his breath coming fast and shallow, Will asked, "What are you waiting for?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, well, Hannibal spelled it out, didn't he? Stay tuned!
> 
> Because I am wrong in the head, I actually used a couple drops of perfume (BPAL's Bengal, Qandisa, and Wrath) to make myself a scent reference for how Will smells/tastes to Hannibal. I came up with the description first, then tried to find notes that matched. Like, I'm not sure what "the acidity of fear" smells like, but Qandisa's got blackened lemon peel in it, and then between the three there are plenty of spices and musk and some vertiver for bitterness. Hannibal's POV is challenging to write partly because he's so much more attuned to sensory experiences than most people, so I had this perfume swatch on the back of my hand while I was writing to remind myself of that.
> 
> I'm not sure if it shows, but I was also completely famished while writing the bulk of this chapter. Not on purpose, but I'm trying for a summer slimdown and writing takes my mind off it.
> 
> When I realized I wanted flowers in this scene, I spent some time looking up flower symbolism, because arranging centerpieces with coded messages he doesn't expect his guests to notice or understand seems like something Hannibal would do.
> 
> And finally, if anything that can happen happens, you know what that means? Yeah, bitches, this shit is canon! Or at least, there's a world in which it's canon. Everything is canon! Canon for everybody!


	4. Chapter Four

"There are things we'll need. Don't move."

Hannibal leaves him lying there. Will stares up at the dim and distant ceiling and tries to resist the urge to call after him, to get up and pace, to touch himself. His heart is racing, his skin so overly sensitized that he can feel the rush of air from Hannibal's departure on his chest and thighs and cock. The beginnings of pain there, the same pressing, formless torment he wakes with in darkness when it isn't the nightmares dragging him out of sleep. If he closes his eyes, he could almost be in his own bed, uncovered, his hand stealing down between his legs, his head reeling from another needful dream. But the polished surface of the table is smooth and cool beneath him, and he presses his palms against it, looks down at himself and watches the cage of his ribs rise and fall as he breathes. This is real. This is real and he is here.

It's so hard to lie still while the doubts creep in, and he wants to shake them off, dispel them. The dissonant hum of anxiety settles at the base of his skull and with it, the building need to scratch, tap his feet or drum his fingers, something to quell the restless energy jittering through him. Then, footsteps, and Will sighs. Just that much is a relief, a refutation of his nameless fears. He is here, and Hannibal is here with him.

A chair scrapes back, and Hannibal's sitting there at the head of the table, at Will's feet, and the shadows in Will's mind are clouds before a wind, fleeing. "Bring yourself down towards me," Hannibal says. His voice is soft now, more a heated promise than a command, and Will obliges him gladly. "Good," he whispers, "yes. Now, rest your knees on my shoulders." That brings them into intimate contact, and Hannibal is like a licking flame between his thighs. Will takes his weight on his shoulder blades as he inclines up toward him, precarious and vulnerable, giving himself over. He looks to Hannibal for reassurance, and for a moment, it seems as though Hannibal's regarding him just as he would a meal laid out on this table, his eyes flat, his face no more expressive now than it was at dinner. But -- no. What he saw... it must have been the flickering of the firelight. No other illumination besides the strange, pale cast of moonlit snow. He can barely see Hannibal beyond the obstruction of his own body, his tensed stomach muscles, his jutting cock.

The Hannibal-shape leans close, comes into half focus, and Will can feel his breath wrapping around him. In the changeable light, he can't see what's in Hannibal's eyes, but when he touches Will, hands gliding up his legs, adjusting his position, it's with a care that borders on reverence. That same quiet awe is there in his voice when he murmurs, "You are so beautiful like this." And Will puts his head back, closes his eyes, the last of his defenses slipping away. In this moment, he's Hannibal's entirely.

He feels Hannibal's cheek brush the inside of his thigh, the shape of his face against him. A light little kiss at the head of his cock, and a hard exhalation there. The sound of Hannibal's throat working. Will tries to look up at him. _You don't have to_ , he means to say, though even the thought pains him. _I'll understand._ But Hannibal snares him with his gaze and he's struck silent. The breath catches in his throat. And then supple lips, parting, sliding over him. Will gasps just from that, and chokes on the sound. The flick and swirl of Hannibal's tongue forces needy little moans out of him, trailing, ragged, as he tries to breathe. Hannibal takes more into him, the contours of his mouth molding to Will, drawing him deeper, deeper. His sweet warmth makes Will loose-limbed, his joints gone liquid. His legs, suspended, start to shake. He's trembling, helpless, his cock pulled inexorably into Hannibal's hot, tight throat, and then, smooth and sudden, Hannibal swallows around him. 

Will cries out and spasms, nearly falls, but Hannibal grips the undersides of his legs and holds him still. Past fluttering lids, Will looks up at him, sees his head dip down, his eyes intent, a single lock of hair spilling over his brow. He hollows his cheeks and pulls back, his lips darkened and stretching around Will's cock. The sight of it makes Will pulse and throb even as he emerges from Hannibal's mouth. Cool air against his wet, flushed, tender skin, and Hannibal's hot breath, a jumble of sensations, too much, not enough. "Please," Will whimpers, without meaning to, "Hannibal, please, please..." 

"Greedy boy," Hannibal rasps, and goes down again, the vibration of his words reaching out for Will, embracing him. Welcome wet heat closes over him as he slides into Hannibal's mouth, and now Will can't even beg. He's arching, mewling, wordless, helpless, burning up inside. Gasping, his heart battering against his ribs like a caged bird's wings, Will watches Hannibal consume him. 

 

Hannibal's gaze never left Will's face and, holding him with his eyes, he ensured Will never looked away. That connection between them was vital. It was the the only way he could keep Will safe.

The movements came unconsciously, instinctually. He wrapped his lips over his teeth and buried his head between Will's thighs. The taste of him... He was leaking already, glittering drops on Hannibal's tongue. He could become drunk on this. The muscles of his throat relaxed, allowing Will full entry. Hannibal wanted him there. He wasn't sure he had ever wanted anything so much. His lips were stretched tight with the thickness of him, the head brushing the back of his throat, and still, he wanted more. But for now, this was all that Will could give him.

He contented himself with that and hummed around Will's length, a quiet sonata accompanied by Will's gasps and sighs. He wouldn't last for long. Already Hannibal had pushed him to the boundary of what he could endure, a glut of pleasure, like a starving man dragged before a feast. How long had Will denied himself all but the basest of life's necessities? It was no wonder his body had turned on him, forced to plod through thankless days without respite or reward, like a blacksmith's bellows that breathes but does not live.

But oh, how alive he felt in Hannibal's mouth! He was throbbing, swelled with need, his tumbling _stretto_ heartbeats surging against Hannibal's lips and tongue, the heated weight and press of him, even the softest of his involuntary thrusts forceful against the back of Hannibal's throat, the musky bitterness of his living flesh pervading Hannibal's senses. On the table, Will was losing himself, loose, disjointed syllables spilling from his lips, panting and moaning with abandon. Hannibal could smell adrenaline on his skin, and taste its acid sting laced through the other flavors of him. His body was wound tight and tensed like a coiled spring. Under Hannibal's hands, the muscles of Will's legs clenched, spasmed, threatened to give out. His eyes wanted to roll up, but he kept them on Hannibal's face. 

Those eyes were black and feral, Will at his most bestial, and Hannibal saw what he could become. No faltering now, no unease, nothing held back. Unveil him, and he could be this way always. Free from all but his hungers, he would be transcendent. Praise rose to Hannibal's lips, rhapsodies turned to suction. He flexed the muscles of his throat, pulling Will deep as he could, laved him with his tongue, all to say _I can bring it out in you_. He pulled almost all the way off, holding only the head between his lips -- _I know what you deny even to yourself_ \-- and opened himself to Will without reservation, let him pound the back of his throat, the fleeting urge to gag muffled, only sound, more vibration. A harsh breath through his nose, and he repeated the movement again, again -- _Give it to me, Will_. Salt splashed against his palate, and Will gave a stuttering cry. His hands twitched and scrabbled at the table like the last beats of a failing heart. His head rocked back, skewed, his eyes closed in surrender. He jerked within Hannibal, seemed to grow heavier and then -- the vital torrent, bitter as tears, sweet as sorrow, hot and gushing and full of squandered promise. Hannibal held a future in his mouth and he didn't spill a drop. He swallowed and swallowed and swallowed and drank Will dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I almost didn't get this done for today, but I persevered. Next time, sex!
> 
> Also, if you're interested, this is now a podfic. I'm recording as I go, and I have up to the previous chapter posted  
> [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4177494/chapters/9432180).


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Last chapter. Let's do this thing!

The taste of Will was fresh in his mouth, bittersweet and filled with longing. When the spasms subsided and he was still, Hannibal folded a towel under his lumbar spine and pushed his legs apart. Will was pliable, more or less insensible, his limbs heavy with dead weight. He breathed slow and deep and didn't react when Hannibal moved him, and that was well enough. This would be easier with Will unaware. He poured a few drops of lubricant into his palm and coated just the tip of a finger. It was hard to know how someone would react the first time they were penetrated, and he was reasonably sure this would be Will's first time. Likely it wouldn't be pleasurable at first, so better for him to feel nothing at all.

At first, he only circled the ring of muscle, not intruding, feeling Will's skin, its heat beneath the cool gel. Then, his index finger just to the nail. There was very little resistance, and he could have pushed in further, but he declined to until he had coated himself more fully. He had no desire for Will to wake sore, only stretched and ready. One long finger now, smoothed, sliding into him. Will was very hot inside, almost unbearably so, and his flesh gave so sweetly under Hannibal'a touch, fitted itself around him. It was as though Will was made for this. He took a second finger easily, and Hannibal explored him, feeling the tiny shocks from an inner net of capillaries, the echo of Will's breath as muscles expanded and drew themselves tight. All that blood and viscera, cradled by his pelvic bone, intimately connected to the greater organs shielded by his ribs. Hannibal could picture it all in the abstract, but only guess at its true beauty. Will would be singular even to his depths, the strains and trials of his life showing there much as the scars his work had earned him did upon his skin. 

Three fingers now. Hannibal worked in Will, slowly, stretching, scissoring, twisting his wrist, all minute, patient motions, opening him up. The lubricating gel eased his way, enabled him to probe more smoothly and with some force. He fell into the beginnings of a rhythm, advance and retreat, a diaphanous prelude to what he intended. Will's breathing roughened as Hannibal fingered him, and his eyes moved restlessly beneath his lids. Hannibal focused his attentions, brushing Will's prostate, bending down low over him, kissing the insides of his thighs and whispering to him. Will murmured and sighed in response, evidently conscious now but not yet coherent. He started to shift, to squirm against Hannibal's fingers. When he tried to pull his legs up for better leverage, Hannibal laid a warning hand on his thigh. "No, Will," he said. "No. Let me do this."

Will whined but relaxed his legs, groaning each time Hannibal withdrew from him, his voice growing stronger. He endured for some minutes, but then he was lifting his hips again, bracing up his back and shoulders and trying to fuck himself on Hannibal's fingers. Hannibal's free hand drifted to the rise of his iliac crest, delicate pressure just below the place where bone distorted the shape of muscle and skin, quelling Will, holding him down. Will stilled himself, but with a breaking cry of protest. "S-stop teasing!"

One corner of Hannibal's mouth lifted, and he slowed inside Will, eliciting further pained vocalizations from him. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Will moaned, "please!"

"Very well," Hannibal said, and picked up his rhythm, harder now and faster. He lingered against the tender spot inside Will, enough to make the spent and slackened part of him come alive with interest. Will gasped, his legs twitched, his eyes squeezed shut. The blood was high in his cheeks -- Hannibal suspected he hadn't known that he could harden again so soon. His body's reaction surprised and shamed him, laid him bare. For all his self-denial, he could be made insatiable. Hastening his movements, Hannibal tormented him, each thrust aimed to put exquisite pressure on his prostate, and he shook with strangled cries. "Scream if you like," Hannibal murmured. "We are all alone. No one to hear you." Another jab from his fingers and Will did scream, lifting off the table. He was erect again, fully so, red and straining up against his stomach. And Hannibal withdrew from him completely.

"Get up," he said, with a nonchalance he didn't feel, cleaning his hands with a cloth he'd set aside. No need for Will to sense the raw hunger that seethed beneath his breastbone. Even now, it might frighten him. Will looked at him dazed at first, but he complied, sliding off the table and attempting to stand on shaky legs. When he made to lower himself over the table, Hannibal shook his head. "No. Limber yourself first. You'll need to hold yourself up, and if you lock your joints during the act, you may lose consciousness."

Hesitantly, Will did as he was told. He moved with the stiff step of a man unused to his own nakedness, uncomfortable with light and air against his skin. In the days to come, Hannibal hoped to break him of that. Will was far too splendid to be ashamed of his natural state, and Hannibal doubted he would ever tire of looking at him. He watched the sinuous interplay of muscles as Will stretched, his shapely calves, his strong back, his firm, round gluteals. Nude, he was like a classical sculpture given life, his own Galatea. The only aberration in form was his erection, too unrefined a feature to be rendered by the old masters. Even Hannibal, who reveled in those things most unmentionable, would not choose to immortalize Will aroused. This was a transitory state, a stolen moment that had no place in marble or clay. Will, like this, was his alone.

Steady on his feet at last, Will glanced self-consciously at Hannibal. He didn't have to say anything. The need for approval was heavy in his eyes. Hannibal nodded shallowly, and Will turned to the table and bent himself over it, gripping the edges, braced and ready. A man less composed would have made some sound of appreciation; Hannibal simply savored, and stored the image away with all the rest. Will might never be as beautiful again as he was tonight. 

 

"Do it. I want you to do it." Will presses his face against the table and tries not to hear the cracking strain in his voice. The next words come out a whisper. "I want you inside me."

Over the rough, thickened beating of his own heart, he hears the rustle of fabric, pressed slacks hitting the floor. He raises himself a few inches to steal a glance at Hannibal, and groans helplessly at the sight, his mouth going dry. It's... it's so big. It's well-formed, elegant somehow, like the rest of Hannibal's lithe hunter body, but solid, full, wine-red and livid. He can't help imagining it breaching him, the way Hannibal's fingers had... He shudders and moans and has to close his eyes. Just the thought of it makes him feel so empty, and he's aware of pointing his toes and arching his spine, offering himself up.

Hannibal's hand at the small of his back, and then the full length of his body bent down over him, his warm breath on the shell of his ear. "Now you see why I took such care to prepare you."

Will can only moan. Hannibal's cock is pressed up against him, so hard and hot, almost unendurable this close, so close to his burning core. He's panting, yearning, aching to be filled. "Please," he manages, his voice faint and failing. "Hannibal, please. I need this."

Hannibal kisses his cheek and his shoulder as he straightens, hands drifting to Will's thighs, adjusting his stance, spreading his legs wider. A hot, blunt pressure against him, thicker than those long fingers, and pulsing. "Breathe, Will," Hannibal says, his voice rough and husky. "I need you to breathe." Will makes himself takes a breath and lets it out in a sigh, does it again and again as Hannibal strokes down his spine. "Good. That's good." Hannibal's grip on his hips as he aligns himself. "You've been so patient." A gentle hand in his hair, a comfort. "You deserve this." And he presses in, slow, to the hilt.

It's relief Will feels before anything else, relief and desperate gratitude. Whole. Like this, he's whole, and all other thoughts are dim and far away. "You feel so good," he whispers.

Hannibal, low: "So do you."

Will sighs in contentment as he rolls his hips, adjusting to the feel of Hannibal, his heat, his welcome weight, so full with him. He feels light and fluid, as if he could shape himself around Hannibal, fitting to him, letting himself be dissolved. He gives himself over to pleasure, not sharp but heavy, settling on him like fog. He's dazed and falling into it, endless, depthless. His muscles are relaxed and loose and there's no pain at all. He has to focus on his legs to keep them from giving out.

Hannibal starts to rock into him. His breathing comes rough and fast, but otherwise he's quiet. It's his hands that let Will know him, his gentle touches across Will's back, a map of falling stars. His fingertips dig in as he withdraws from Will, the tiny bite of his nails keeping him anchored, his attentions turning feather-light with each smooth thrust in. When Hannibal hits that spot inside him now, Will feels flooded, swept away, warm and bright, enveloped. His hands have gone limp on the tabletop. He's wrung out, weak as a fawn. He's safe.

When his vision starts to go white, he realizes he's going to come again, and he struggles to speak. "I want you to keep fucking me if I pass out." The words are halting, almost slurred. "I want you to come. I... I want you to come inside me."

Hannibal pulls him back against his chest, holding him up, holding him close. "You won't pass out," he says, kissing Will's face, his neck. "Not much longer, Will. Stay with me." And Will turns his head, seeking out Hannibal's mouth, and lets himself be kissed, languid and slow. A strange taste on Hannibal's tongue, what he realizes must be his own essence, and another tremulous wave of pleasure crashes over him. Pervading Hannibal the way Hannibal will pervade him... His muscles are going into spasms, his legs shaking hard. He leans back against Hannibal and reaches for the arm around his waist, holding on. One more thrust and he's crying out, spilling hot over his stomach and legs, his knees buckling. His heavy head comes to rest on Hannibal's shoulder, and Hannibal breathes his name as he finishes inside him.

There's nothing for awhile but warm, bright calm like sweetest summer. Distantly, he feels Hannibal press a kiss to his temple. "Do something for me, Will?"

"Anything."

"Come to bed with me."

Will laughs hoarsely, his spent, exhausted body relying on Hannibal for support. "Can you help me up the stairs?"

Hannibal lifts him as though he weighs nothing, gathers him into his arms. Will has to close his eyes against the vertigo. He's vaguely aware of being carried, and then he's laid down on cool sheets. There are covers folded over him and a warm presence at his side. His body relaxes against the mattress, and as he feels himself start to drift, Hannibal's voice follows him down. "Sleep, Will. I'll be here when you wake. You won't be alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that got surprisingly romantic toward the end, for this pairing, at least. I didn't know I was going in that direction until I was in the middle of writing it. I plan ahead a certain amount, but I generally don't know how these things are going to end until they do. 
> 
> In my internet wanderings, I stumbled across full versions of some of those drawings Hannibal always has lying around on his desk on the show, and is it just my deluded fangirl heart, or is [this](http://www.nbc.com/hannibal/photos/hannibals-sketches/2360706) (NSFW) sketch transparently Will? Like, damn, man. Damn. So, that served as inspiration for part of this chapter, but I may also have to write up a ficlet of Will posing for Hannibal. For reasons. Yes.
> 
> I plan to be back next week with either that or one of the five other fics I've started, and I'll continue to post podfics as I cut them together. Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck with me through this monstrosity. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hannibal Audio Anthology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177494) by [detritius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius)




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